


Their Souls Were the Same

by anorak188



Category: Travelers (TV)
Genre: A little mattress store canoodling and heart eyes, A social worker shouldn't be in a relationship with a client, F/M, If David did the healthy thing and didn't try to get Marcy back in 1.5 seconds after kicking her out, It's weird and makes me uncomfortable, Philip is finally loved, Ya'll know Darcy is a bad pairing, also heroin mentions, and death, he deserves it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-03
Updated: 2019-01-30
Packaged: 2019-10-03 07:01:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17279303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anorak188/pseuds/anorak188
Summary: It's season one with Marcy 1.0. David and Marcy have a clean split from whatever that relationship was trying to be and she moves in with Philip at ops. Also, we get flashbacks (flashforwards?) of their time before they came to the 21st century. Mostly just fluffy niceness in a world where these two get together because I've been patiently waiting for this to happen since episode 1x11. Anyway, enjoy this version of season one where my dreams come true.





	1. Chapter 1

Marcy shines her penlight in Philip’s eyes. His pupils are reactive, proving it’s been several hours since his last dose of heroin. He looks a little worse for wear, but she is starting to see real improvements in his recovery.

She clicks the light off and shoves it into a side pocket of her medical bag. She opens the main compartment and starts unloading clean syringes, needles, and antiseptic into a set of drawers. In some ways, she's reminded of David, spending his days checking in on clients struggling with all kinds of problems, ranging from the drug addicted, the homeless, and of course, people with varying mental capabilities, just like her host. She bites her lip, the metallic taste of blood filling her mouth. David’s work was important to him, and she wasn’t going to have that taken away from him. Still, in her short time in the 21st, aside from her teammates, David was the only person she knew who made her want to keep trying to save the world, even when she knew she couldn’t save herself. He made the rest humanity worth saving.

Leaving was hard, but she knew it was for the best. Still, the thought made her sad, so she tried to pour herself into her work, ignoring the entire world except for the person in front of her. “How was group therapy this week?”

 

 

Philip ran his fingers across the bedspread. He was always eerily shocked by the feel of the fabric. The same tried-and-true cotton blend would still be used 431 years from now to make clothing. He was yet to find anything here that brought him back to the 25th like that cotton touch – except maybe the pair of blue eyes staring back at him.

“Did you know your eyes now are the exact same as your eyes in the future?” Philip blurted out.

Marcy heaves her bag down by the door and joins Philip on the edge of the bed, clearly exhausted with his antics. “You know the rules. Protoc-.”

“It’s just us,” he begs. “No one else. Please. If I don’t release some of this steam, I’m afraid I’ll slip up.” His eyes dart to the golden tin on his dresser containing a small bag of powdered euphoria. He couldn’t escape his head – it’d been modified against his will to contain all the knowledge of a small computer – but he could unburden the weight of the small things, the things he found joy in remembering, and it just might be enough.

Marcy sucks in her bottom lip, wincing. “Fine,” she concedes. “But my eyes weren’t blue.”

“No,” Philip muses, leaning back against the wall. He soaks in the way the sunlight from the dirty window illuminates her silhouette from behind, giving her the illusion of glowing. Her hair glints golden and her eyes look more ocean than sky. “They were brown, just like your hair.” He remembers the first person who’d ever caught his eye. They would shovel information into him until his brain felt like it’d explode, but there was always more room for memories of her.

 

_The air was congested. 3326 had never known anything but. They were in the middle of nuclear winter; the conditions outside were more than the human body could withstand, so getting fresh air was not an option, but he could occasionally be granted a break from the tiny, windowless room he trained in. When such an occasion arose, he always knew exactly where he wanted to go._

_Her long, silky straight dark hair was pulled back into a low ponytail as she sat in front of a cadaver, a Traveler’s body whose soul had already vacated it and left for the 21st century. Her fingers moved deftly as she stitched together bullet wounds in the body’s chest. He loved to watch her work. She had a focus and dedication for the Traveler program he wished so badly he had. But she’d volunteered, and he’d been selected. He’d never had a choice. He was born to be a historian, a Traveler._

_“It’s hard to imagine her with such a fair complexion, isn’t it?” 0115 rounded the corner of the Medic’s wing of Shelter 1, looking through the observatory window with 3326._

_3326 smiled at the oldest living human, his latest body now beginning to fail. It wouldn’t matter now, they were just six short days away from consciousness transfer. “It’s hard to imagine you as a seventeen-year-old boy.”_

_“Seventeen-year-old man,” 0115 corrected. He stood with his back annoyingly straight, his grease stained hands folded behind his back. “I’m excited to be young again. I haven’t been in a seventeen-year-old body since 2262.”_

_“You’d think the Director would pick a host more suited to your own age.”_

_“I asked for a male host, so it was between Trevor Holden and Philip Pearson. Since I need to build comms for us before our first mission, which starts moments after 3468 arrives, I couldn’t take Grant MacLaren. Besides, I’ve been fifty-four three times over. How boring.”_

_“Makes sense,” 3326 agrees. 3569 sits back, brushing away wisps of sweaty hair from her forehead. She’s saved the life in the simulation. He smiles, proud of her._

_“When are you going to tell her?” 0115 asks._

_“Hm?” 3326 says, pulling himself out of his daze. He falls into them far too often, a common side effect of the modifications._

_0115 nudges him with his elbow. “3569. Or should I say: Marcy. When are you going to clue her in on the fact that you’re in love with her?” “_

_We’re friends,” he insists, though he knows he wishes they were more. "She’s so involved with her training, I rarely leave the Historian’s wing – there’s just no time.”_

_“Yet when you do leave, you never come see me in Engineering, or 3468 in Leadership, or 3465 in Tactical, or anyone else in the shelter for that matter, not even your mother or your brother. No, you come here – to Medic’s – to watch her save lives. You love to see her kindness, her gentleness, her passion, her drive, her altruistic nature. Here, you get to watch it all in real time and maybe even catch her on her way out and get to talk to her.” 0115 leans in in 3326's ear. "I'll let you in on a secret. I did the same thing with my wife."  
_

_3326 heaves a sigh, his heart heavy on what might’ve been. In the 21st, they’ll have Protocol 5 to maintain, so the only time he’ll really ever get to spend time with her is on missions and he’ll need to be focused on the task at hand, not on her. “I’m out of time.”_

_“Love makes time,” 0115 reminds him. “Do you think 3468 and 3465 are going to stop seeing each other when their consciousness is transferred? No, they won’t, even though both of their hosts have significant others to maintain continuity with. Marcy and Philip though,” he smiles, “they don’t. You’ll find a way too, 3326.”_

 

Here that way was, right in front of him. She lived with him now for crying out loud, and yet here he still was, tripping over the real words he wanted to say to her. Marcy laid back at the foot his bed, her shoes kicked off in a pile just over the side. Her jeans are tucked into socks with ruffled cuffs, her feet slightly too big and stretching out the thin white material, making it translucent enough he can see her toenails are painted red.

“What’s your favorite color?” he asks. “Is it red?”

“My favorite color,” Marcy trails, carefully debating the answer to such a trivial question. “Is purple. All shades of it.”

“Purple,” he echoes, committing the thought to memory. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t have a memory chain dedicated solely to her.

A beat and then, “Do you want to go shopping with me?”

“I’m not sure I’m the shopping type,” Philip admits. “What about Carly?”

“She’s at a job interview,” she says, turning over to face him. She props herself up one elbow. “I want a bed. A real one we can put in the loft so I don’t have to keep sleeping on the couch.”

“Oh." It means she's staying. Here. With him. Indefinitely. He’s not thrilled at the idea of shopping, but it’s Marcy, and he can hardly say no. “Yeah, I think I can manage furniture shopping.”

 

As it turns out, shopping with Marcy is the most fun he’s ever had. Is it because he’s only ever seen sunlight for the past two weeks of his entire life? Is it because shopping wasn’t a thing in the shelters? Is it because he’s lying next to Marcy as they test out mattresses? With heavy leaning to the latter, it’s all three.

“What do you think?”

“I think this one is perfect.”

Philip shifts his shoulders, struggling to get comfortable. It reminds him too much of the rock hard mattresses he left behind. “I’m glad you like it, because I think it’s way too stiff.”

Marcy rolls over and faces him. “It’s a good thing you’re not sleeping on it then.”

He rolls over too, just taking in the sight of her lying next to him, not knowing if this will be the only time he’ll ever get to see it from this perspective. “I suppose it is.” But he wishes.

“Ah ah ah,” the sales associate scolds, coming around the corner with a clipboard. “I know that look. No canoodling on my mattresses.”

Philip sits up sharply. “We weren’t -.”

Marcy ignores him. “We’ll take it.”

 

Delivery is scheduled for 3:00 pm and there are some very Traveler things that need to be put away first. Philip taps the small round device under his left ear. “Hey, Trev?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you busy?”

“Not really, no. Why?”

“Marcy and I bought a bed today and I need some help moving some of this stuff out of sight.” Philip suddenly realizes how that sounded. “Sorry, Marcy bought the bed, just for her, not me, I have my own bed, I went with her to keep her company while she shopped.”

Marcy looks up at him like he’s lost his mind. “What?” she mouths.

“Yeah,” Trevor drawls. “I got that.” Philip winces imagining that smug look Trevor probably has. He hopes he gets rid of it before he gets to ops. “I’ll be there in fifteen.”

A strange surge of energy washes over Philip as they pass by one colorful shop after another. One particular shop catches his eye with their display case. Philip pulls his phone out of his coat and texts a quick message to Trevor, asking him to bring something on his way over.

 

“Yeah, we should probably move the microscopes and cover the all these bio hazard labels,” Trevor admits. “I’d be wondering just what the hell is going on in this dilapidated garage I’m delivering furniture to if I saw them.”

Marcy goes to find some sheets to cover the labels with and Trevor gives Philip a hand with the microscopes and lab equipment, which is heavier than he expected. When he’s sure she’s out of earshot, he turns his comm off and whispers to Trevor. “Did you bring it?”

Trevor taps his comm off. “I did. They’re in the mini fridge in your room.”

“Good,” he sighs. He can’t leave this one moment of insane bravery up to chance. If it changes things for the worst, then it does, and that’s that. But Philip knows better than anyone how one tiny act can change the entire course of the future, so he has to try. He looks over his shoulder and says louder, “Do you think you can figure out how to put the bed frame together?”

“Philip.” Trevor looks at him blankly. “I’m an engineer.”

Marcy comes back carrying the white woven throw blanket she’s been sleeping with on the couch. She spreads it out over the equipment that’s been piled together in the corner. “It’s all we have, so it’ll have to do.”

There’s a knock at the door. “Delivery!”

“Go,” Philip motions to Marcy. Have them put the mattress in the loft and the bed frame by the work table.”

After she leaves to deal with the delivery people, Trevor says, “I’m really proud of you, you know. This is a big step, and I'm glad you've found the courage to take it.” He gives him a look. Trevor throws up his hands. “Yeah, yeah, I get it. 'Shut up Grandpa, you’re going to ruin the surprise.'.” Philip thinks he’s about to strangle Trevor. “Ah, to be young,” Trevor laughs. "And in love," he mouths with exaggeration.

Philip thinks he might die right then and there.

He wants this to be perfect.

 

 

“Thanks for helping us out, Trevor,” Marcy says. “I owe you one.”

He picks up the plastic wrapping and throws it away in the bin. “What’re team engineers for?”

“I’ll see you tomorrow for the mission,” she says.

“See you guys," he waves, the loud metal door clanging shut behind him.

Ops is quiet, her new bed is made, and she’s settling into life in the 21st. To be honest, no amount of training would have ever prepared her for what life is really like here, but she wouldn’t have it any other way. Her head aches from the long day. She rubs her temple.

Well, there’s one thing she would change.

Philip comes over to the couch where she lays holding two plates of vegan enchiladas. His expression darkens. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

He sits down on the coffee table. His voice is quiet. “You don’t have to be that way with me.”

The permission to share this burden with someone is such a weight off her shoulders. “I don’t want to die,” she sobs.

He sits the plates down on the table and gets in the floor next to her, brushing her hair back and holding her hand. The touch is so nice, so comforting, she closes her eyes, relieving some of the pain. She feels the couch shift with his weight as he lays his head down next to hers, his breath ragged and uneven on her shoulder. “If there was anything in this world I could do to stop it, I would, no questions asked.”

She lays her head against his. "That means a lot." She lets herself enjoy the comfort of human touch for a few minutes then sighs, bracing herself. “I think I need another dose of the serum.”

“Let me make it for you,” he begs.

She struggles to sit up, moving carefully. “No,” she insists. “You don’t have the training. I can do it.” He looks at her with worried eyes. “I can. I promise.”

Marcy drags herself over to the mini fridge she has solely for medical supplies and pulls out a tiny vial of clear liquid. She places it on the counter to warm up while she sterilizes a portion of the table and sets up her things for the injection.

Philip lands with a jump from her loft. She furrows her brow. “What are you doing?”

He looks surprised she noticed. He holds up a short black screw. “I found a missing part to your bed on the work bench. I just wanted to make sure it was an extra and not something important.”

She thought the screws were silver. Her head aches with the attempt to multitask, so she doesn't bother. simply saying “Thanks,” and turning her attention back to the sterile field in front of her.

 

When Marcy climbs into bed that night, a large bouquet of violets, verbena, lavender, and anemone lay on her pillow, a note tied to it in purple ribbon. At first, she thinks David, but the envelope says otherwise.

_**From Philip** _

She carefully pulls the note out of its envelope and unfolds it.

Suddenly she’s transported back in time, or rather, forward, and it all makes sense.

 

_She finds her solace in sims._

_She knows it will be different to operate on the living, on people she will risk her life for and come to love. There will be new emotions involved, more panic, more fear, more haste. But for now, there is nothing that brings her peace like the gentle hum of the laser or the methodical work of tying off blood vessels by hand._

_Two quick beeps and a green light floods the room. The sim is done, the simulation life saved. She brushes sweaty hair out of her face with her forearm. She stands and strips off bloody gloves in the bio hazard bin by the door, watching a short redheaded man scrub in for his simulation._

_She sees him watching, that tall skinny boy with the black hair and pine green eyes. Of all people on her team, she’s closest with him. She’s grateful knowing there will be a familiar soul coming through with her. Marcy shoves the operating room doors open and his eyes brighten as he sees her._

_“How was that?” she asks._

_“I’d trust my life in your hands.”_

_She takes her hair down, running her fingers through the knots. She accidentally fell back asleep after the reveille bell this morning. They kept her up twenty-four hours yesterday to test her ability to work under stress and sleep deprivation – and six hours’ sleep is simply not enough to recover. She wanted to take the time to brush her hair and shower, but today was the last day to finish the GSW rotation and she couldn’t miss it. She smooths her hair back again, hoping it looks neater than her half-assed job this morning. “Yeah? That good?”_

_A voice tendered by age answers. “As would I. You are an excellent surgeon, 3569.”_

_“Oh, 0115, I didn’t notice you there.” His eyes dart between 3326 and herself, an amused look on his face. She raises an eyebrow. “Thank you.”_

_0115’s eyes move to the clock on the wall. “As much as I would love to stay and chat with you, Marcy, I’m afraid I have training of my own to finish.” He claps 3326’s shoulder. “Philip on the other hand, I believe he has a few minutes of his break left. I’ll see you two later this evening during our final run through of the Antimatter Transfer mission.”_

_“See you then. . . Trevor.” The words are still so foreign in her mouth, the way names, real names, flow. But he’s right, they need to practice using their 21st century names instead of their birth or Traveler number._

_“All done with your GSW’s?”_

_“Yeah,” she says, turning back to watch the redheaded man sweating through his sim as he hurries to cauterize bleeding vessels with the laser. “I passed, but do me a favor. Don’t get shot.”_

_“I can’t promise that,” he laughs. “But I certainly won’t try.”_

_3569 glances up at the hall clock, the time reading 14:28. “When do you have to go back?”_

_His eyes are above her, checking the time for himself. His eyelashes are dark and long, shading the green. “One minute, fifty-one seconds.”_

_“Should probably start walking then, huh?”_

_“It looks like it. I never get long enough breaks.”_

_They start down a long hall way to the left of the Medic’s observatory. Occasionally someone comes out of the small rooms on the right marked with a Traveler number. They all look shell shocked and sick. The sight twists her heart. 3326 seems to keep it together on the outside, but she knows better. No human being can be stripped of their free will before they have teeth, stay locked in a tiny windowless room for twelve hours a day, have their mind physically altered to store information in vivid detail, be referred to as nothing more than a fucking number – and not come out a broken wreck of a person. They stop outside a heavy wooden door, the LED display above reading “3326” in orange._

_“I wish I could change that,” she says. She means it. She doesn’t want him or anyone else to suffer another second of it. “You work harder than all of us.”_

_He smiles down at her, reassuring. “You are, remember?”_

_“I’m just one person. I’m not going to make that much impact.”_

_“I beg to differ. You’ve made an impact on me.”_

 

Marcy descends the stairs from her makeshift bedroom to the center of ops, where Philip sits staring at a computer, his skin cast in blue light. He gives her a timid smile when he hears her. He looks down at his lap, smoothing a thumb over his fingernail. “Did you like them?”

“I did.”

“And?”

She steps forward, the concrete floor cold on her bare feet. She’s suddenly very aware how under dressed she is compared to him, wearing only a thin blue t-shirt and grey pajama shorts with lace around the leg. She was dressed for bed, not for confessions. She wants to cross her arms over her chest but doesn’t want to seem confrontational or standoffish or mean; she doesn’t want to shut down the potential of this because honestly, she’s curious to explore it. Thankfully, Philip doesn’t stare at her body, only his trembling hands. She stops at his desk, her fingers skimming the cool glass. Finally, he looks at her, waiting. “And I can’t believe it took me so long to see it.”

He clenches his jaw and tilts his head, preparing himself for the worst. “Please elaborate what that means.”

Marcy carefully reaches out, touching his hand. “Looking back, I’m not surprised.” His eyes fall to their hands. “I mean, how many times did you just happen to get a break while I did my sims in Medic’s? I never saw other teammates visit each other during training. No one else ever came to see me. My mother hated the idea of the Traveler program, and she hated it even more when I volunteered. She never came for any of it.” She smiles at him, thankful for the one person in her life who was constant. “You always told me you were proud of me and complimented my work, even when I failed the sim. You,” she intertwines their fingers, “are who made me keep going. Keep pushing. Keep trying, even when the odds were so stacked against me I knew I’d lose the patient before I even started. I’d catch a glimpse of you waiting outside the observatory window, and it revitalized me. I wanted to be worthy of your praise. I didn’t want to leave the operating room thinking there was some ounce of me I could’ve given and didn’t.”

He squeezes her hand and gives her a small smile. “I really made a difference to you?”

"You have always made a difference. You've always been important to me." The words are a faint memory to her, a vivid one to him. “You made an impact on me.”

He presses his lips together, clearly trying to tone down his excitement, his dimple sinking in. “Do,” he pauses, trying to gather himself, “do you want to see where this goes? Where we go?”

“I do,” she says, moving even closer, closing the space between them. He swivels toward her, his eyes soft and gentle. “But I can’t promise how long we’ll have.”

“I don’t care if I only have the next ten minutes with you.” He looks up at her. “Where do we start?”

“I have an idea.”

Marcy moves slow, giving him ample opportunity to stop her if she does too much. But he doesn’t, so she swings her leg over him, lowering herself onto his lap so they’re eye to eye. His hands go to her hips to steady her, and she’s caught off guard by what it feels like to have him touch her like _that_. One hand goes up to rest on his jawbone and cheek, his stubble pricking her fingertips. The other hand rests between his shoulder and neck. She can feel the pulse in his throat and the heat of his skin; she can see the flush of his cheeks. She grins at him. “Either you just shot up, or you’re really enjoying this.”

“My favorite drug is sitting on my lap.” His eyes are trained on her lips, begging her to make the move or he will in the next two seconds. “Yeah, safe to say I like this.”

Philip was the softest soul she’d ever met. He kissed like it too.

When they finally broke apart, they just sat there looking at each other with bewilderment. His eyes were still green – though lighter now – but it was still him in there; it was still 3326 looking at her. He was right.

Though their bodies were different, their souls were the same.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The inevitable happens.
> 
> INCOMING TRAV 3569  
> VER TWO

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really didn't intend for this story to have a part two, but I had an idea for another fic and it just fit in so perfectly. I'm not exactly sure when this takes place in relation to part one. It could be the next day, it could be two weeks after - it's up to you. Also, sorry if this idea doesn't come across super clearly, but I imagined with the knowledge of Marcy's impending death, they really just said "Screw it" and embraced the idea of a romantic relationship with open arms since they knew their time would be so limited. 
> 
> Also I know ops doesn't have a kitchen, but just pretend it does for the sake of this fic.
> 
> Please ignore the lack of real plot in this, I'm carrying the entire weight of this ship on my shoulders.

He woke up to the worst sound he’s ever heard.

When he realizes there’s only one other person in the garage, he races up the stairs to the loft where she lays in bed, seizing in her sleep.

He rolls her onto her side and strokes her hair. “It’s okay. You’re okay.” He glances nervously at the clock. 09:53. There’s nothing he can do but wait. His eyes wander around the room, to the endearing messiness Marcy seems to leave in her new space. Yesterday’s clothing lays on the floor looking like she no more than stepped out of them and left them there. The second and fourth dresser drawer are half open, jewelry sprung across the dresser’s top. On her left bedside table are the purple flowers he gave her in a glass cup in leu of a vase. The note is propped against the glass, the purple ribbon coiled on the nightstand.

She begins to stir, life returning to her. Her eyes blink open tiredly. “What?"

He gives her a sad smile. “Seizure.”

“How long?”

He looks at the clock. 10:00. He sucks in a breath. “Seven minutes.”

“Seven?” She puts a hand over her forehead with a groan. “They’re getting -.”

“I know.” His voice is somber. “You don’t have to talk.” He taps his comm.

She narrows her eyes. “What’re you doing?”

“Boss?”

MacLaren’s voice answers, already sounding irate. “Yeah, Philip?”

“Marcy and I are going to have to sit this one out.”

Marcy raises up on her elbows, wincing. “You can’t do that. We have a mission today.”

Philip pushes her down with a gentle hand. “Which can be done without a medic.”

MacLaren sighs, clearly fed up with the historian he was stuck with. “What do you mean, ‘sit this one out’? You have a job to do. You can’t pick and choose the missions you want to go on.”

“There have been some developments in Marcy’s condition,” Philip clarifies. “I’m not leaving her like this.”

MacLaren sighs, cursing. “Damn it. Is she okay?”

“For the time being, she’s alive, if that’s what you mean. But she’s getting worse.”

“I’ll have Boyd come over and check her out.” He hears a car door shut. “In the meantime, though, you still have to go on this mission. It’s not optional.”

“You don’t necessarily need a historian for this one. I could just write down the coordinates for you and -.”

“You heard me, Philip.” He gets the impression this is less about needing him and more about getting him to fall in line after the Aleksander Andrieko mission. The engine roars to life. “Carly will be over soon to pick you up.”

Philip lets out a groan of frustration, flopping back on the bed.

“He won’t let you stay, will he?”

“No. He’s sending Boyd to stay with you instead.”

“Scoot up here,” she says. “Lay with me until you have to go.”

He lays his head on the pillow beside her and she scoots down, nestling herself in his arm. “We’re getting down to the finish line.”

“Don’t,” he says. “Don’t talk about it like it’s a goal.”

“It’s not a goal. It’s how this ends.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I may not have twenty years of training in my specialty like you do, Philip, but I do know what I’m talking about.”

“What if it’s today?” he worries. “What if it’s while I’m gone? What if you’re alone?”

“I won’t be alone. I’ll have Boyd.” She rolls over slightly and points to the flowers and note. “And I’ll have these.” She rolls back over, laying her head on his chest. Morning sunlight pours in through the window, bathing them in warm yellow light. He can’t help but notice how pale she looks, bleached white against his skin.

“Your host has a heart murmur,” she says, almost with a laugh of delight. Is she losing her mind now too?

“What?”

“I hear it,” she says, pressing her ear down. “The first heart sound is soft.”

“What does that mean?”

“It’s so mild you’ll probably never have symptoms. Most people don’t.” She looks up at him. “Relax. It’s harmless.”

“Do you mind not being a doctor for once?” he asks. “Just take it easy. You’re the patient today.”

“I don’t like being the patient.”

“That’s not really up to you.”

Carly knocks on the door. “Philip!”

“Please don’t go, okay?” he whispers.

Her eyes are soft. "Philip."

“Just promise me, okay? I can’t go until you do.”

She nods. “I promise.”

Philip begrudgingly swings his legs off the bed, trying to gather the strength to leave her. Carly pounds on the door again. “I’m coming!” he yells back.

“Wait!” He turns around and she grabs him by the shirt, pulling him in for a kiss. “Go,” she says, smoothing his shirt back out. “Go save the world.”

“I’ll be back soon,” he promises.

By the time he reaches the end of the steps he’s already counting down the seconds until he returns. Carly stands by the door, her feet shoulder width apart, her arms crossed. He knows from historical record Carly Shannon was a timid person by nature. 3465 often has a hard time embodying that. She doesn’t blend in anymore, and for her host’s sake, maybe that’s a good thing. “It’s about time,” Carly says. “Are you ready to go?”

“Ready?” he asks. “No. Am I going anyway? Yes.” Philip slams the car door shut.

“Hey!” Carly scolds, climbing into the driver’s seat. “Take it easy.”

“What if she dies while we’re not there?” He takes a shaky breath, the thought making him sick. “What if I just saw her for the last time?”

Carly pulls out onto the street. “The mission -.”

“‘The mission comes first.’ ‘Protocol One.’ ‘You took an oath.’” He stares out the window, watching buildings fade into highway. “Has anyone ever considered I’ve never had the choice? Has anyone considered that maybe I don’t fucking care about the Grand Plan?”

“Okay this,” Carly makes a vague hand gesture at him, “has got to be resolved before we get there. We need you operating at your full potential.”

“A portable computer would do the same thing,” he mumbles.

“Philip, I am about to pull this car over,” Carly warns. “You are a loved and valued member of this team, regardless of your historian status. Don’t you dare let me hear you undervalue yourself again.”

He glances at her. “I see your maternal instincts have kicked in. How is Jeffrey, by the way?”

“Don’t change the subject. We’re talking about you. What’s going on with you?”

“I’m just scared for Marcy, that’s all.”

Carly enters Trevor’s neighborhood. She gives him a knowing side eye. “You care for her.”

“I care for all of you.”

Carly pulls up outside of Trevor’s house and honks the horn. “No, I mean, you _care_ for her.” He gives her a look, unsure of if he should divulge that information to the rest of the team yet. “Hear me out here. You always gravitated to her in training, I saw you more than once talking to her outside of Medic’s and I _know_ you didn’t get that many breaks. I saw that soft little heart of yours breaking when Marcy told you our kidnappers showed her a video of you being shot. I saw that, don’t think I didn’t see that. To put it in perspective, they showed me Jeffrey, someone I love. They showed Marcy you. Doesn’t that say something?” He’s silent. He never thought of it that way. “It was hard for her to let you go this morning, I could tell. Is there something you should tell us?”

Trevor comes running down the sidewalk. Philip fights to compose himself. “Only if she survives.”

 

After the mission, his phone rings. On the other side is the only voice in this world he wants to hear. “Marcy,” he breathes out.

“I’m here,” she says. “When will you be home?”

Home. The word triggers the flash of an alternate timeline. He looks at Carly, whose brow is furrowed in concern. “How much longer until we’re back at ops?”

She glances at the clock on the dash. “Ten minutes, maybe? Do we need to hurry up?”

“ETA: ten minutes,” he relays. “Do you want us there faster? We can be there faster.”

“No, ten minutes is fine. Boyd has a neurostimulator she says will make me feel better temporarily and I’ve made her wait all day to use it. I want to use all of my good time with you.”

He lets out a shaky breath. “Okay. I’ll be there soon.”

“I’ll see you soon.”

He breaks down the second he presses end call. “Carly, I can’t lose her.”

She rubs his arm. “You're not alone.”

 

He’s out of the car before Carly’s made a full stop. He swings open the metal side door of the garage to see her leaned against his desk, arms crossed and brow furrowed, talking to Boyd. Temporary or not, the sight of her looking so normal makes his heart skip a beat. Her head whips around when she hears the door, her expression immediately softening. She runs, literally jumping in his arms, wrapping her arms and legs around him. In that moment, not his team, not the Grand Plan, not the Director, not the Protocols, nothing matters beyond her life.

He wraps his arms around her tightly, not entirely sure she can breathe, but he imagines if he holds her close enough, she’ll absorb into him. He can keep her safe there. He buries his face into her shoulder, breathing in the scent of her. “I am so, so grateful you’re still here.”

“We are going to live an entire lifetime in the six good hours this neurostimulator gives me.”

Still in the shadow of Marcy’s hair, he hears Boyd say, “I’ll catch a ride back with Carly. Let me know if anything changes.” The door shuts behind her and he hears them pull away.

He puts her down. “Where do we start?”

Her fingers wrap around his cheek, pulling him down to her level as she rises on her tiptoes to meet his lips. “Right here.”

He’ll never get tired of kissing her.

Marcy lays her hands on his chest. “Do you want to see the list?”

He grins. “You made a list?”

She saunters off to his desk, picking up a torn out yellow paper from a legal pad. “I did. I didn’t want to waste a single second.” She brings it over for him to read. “Boyd helped me . . . between the seizures.”

“How many did you have?”

She takes a deep breath. “Six.”

His mouth drops. “In four hours? You shouldn’t have waited on me. You should’ve taken this sooner.”

“Listen. We both know how this ends. You are my favorite person in any century. I want to spend every second I have before that happens with you.” Before he can protest, she points to the list. “Now let’s get going on this. We’ve got shopping to do.”

 

“You know, I didn’t imagine grocery shopping would be at the top of your bucket list, but you surprise me every day,” Philip muses, pushing the shopping cart.

“Correction,” Marcy says, flashing him the list. “It says: ‘Grocery shopping with Philip’. More specifically for tonight’s dinner.” She tosses a box of gnocchi in the cart. “I want to see what kind of cook you are.”

He laughs, his eyes scanning the shelves. “I think you’re aiming a little high there, Marce.” Food was strictly rationed in the future, so the preparation was only given to a trusted few. “I’ve never cooked and neither have you.”

“Exactly, that’s why it’ll be fun.” She stretches for a can of olives, just out of her reach. “This is one of the few times I miss my old body.” She jumps, swiping at the can, only managing to push it back further. “I was nice and tall back then.”

He reaches above her, grabbing the can with ease. “Well, I think you’re lovely either way.”

“I miss my hair too,” she says, two fingers hooked in the side of the cart as she walks along beside it. “Straight hair is so easy to manage.” They walk on to the next aisle. “Is there anything you miss?”

“Honestly?” he says. “There’s not much. I miss my brother sometimes. I wonder a lot about how he’s doing. Did he join the Traveler program? Did he ever marry 3182? I wonder if they ever got that surrogacy program up and running. If they did, then they could have a kid now.” A ghost of a smile dances on his lips. “I could be an uncle right now and not even know it.”

“Do you want kids?” Marcy asks, picking out tomatoes. He doesn’t know how she can phrase such a loaded question so casually.

“You know we can’t.”

Marcy picks out a zucchini. “But in a perfect world,” she says, painting a verbal picture. “Fertility isn’t damaged by radiation, birth defects are far and few between and most of them survivable, there is no Protocol Four – would you have kids then?”

“Are we living in the 21st or the 25th in this fantasy?”

“Either,” she says.

He bites his lip. “Are historians a thing?”

“Does that matter?”

“If they are, then the answer is no. I couldn’t risk putting a child through what I went through – especially not one of my own. But if they’re not, then yes.” He looks up at her from across the vegetable display. “You?”

“I think I’d like kids,” she says, weighing an onion in her hand. “But now I feel awful I didn’t even think of the historian’s thing. Was it really that bad?”

He sums it up simply, not wanting to bridge such a terrible topic on what is supposed to be a perfect day. “You have no idea.”

 

“You start cutting the vegetables, I’ll start the gnocchi.” Marcy grabs a pot and fills it with water at the sink.

He doesn't have a cutting board, but he does have a plate, so he sets about cutting the vegetables on that. He trims a slice of tomato and takes it over to Poppy.

Marcy twists a knob on the stove. “What’re you doing?”

Poppy nibbles on the tomato. Philip says it like it's obvious. “The angel’s share.”

She dumps the entire box of gnocchi in the pot. “I thought that was wine.”

“Do you want an intoxicated turtle?”

“Fine,” she laughs. “But wash your hands again. Turtles can carry salmonella.”

Marcy puts the chopped onion, zucchini, mushrooms, and wine in a pot and sets the timer on her phone. She hoists herself up on the counter. She reaches for his hand, hooking her fingers in his. “We have ten minutes.”

He stands between her knees and puts his hands on her waist. “I have a feeling those instructions say it’ll need stirring.”

She rests her elbows on his shoulders, her arms crossed behind his neck. “Yeah, but I’d rather you kissed me.”

He nods. “Yeah, that sounds like it’s more fun.”

The alarm on her phone rings, bringing them out of their daze. Smoke begins to waft up from the vegetables, the gnocchi boiling dry. “Oh, shit.” Philip rushes to the sink to add more water. “Hurry,” he nods to vegetables, now outright frying, “stir them.”

“They’re stuck.” Marcy scrapes at them until all of a sudden burned zucchini is flying everywhere – on the floor, all over the stove, a piece even lands in her hair. She picks it out and flings it in the trash, huffing. “I have a feeling there may be takeout on the menu.”

Philip grabs two bowls, dividing the gnocchi. “Be positive. It might not even be that bad.” But something about the blackened pasta tells him she may be right.

 

“Well, that sucked.” She puts her dishes by the sink, leaning against the counter. She pulls out the list and crosses dinner off. “Next up: dance with me.”

He’s not much of a dancer, but he can sway, so he takes her hand, pulling over to the center of ops, where it’s more open. “Can I pick the song?”

“Surprise me.”

A quick YouTube search and soft piano music fills the room. He hates being a historian so much of the time, bearing the weight of all the tragedies humanity has to offer alone. But other times, like this one, having so much knowledge at the tip of his fingers, he can use it to make the moment perfect.

He takes her hand, pulling her into him with a spin, making her laugh. He feels her heart against his chest, her head settled in the crook of his neck, her breaths against his skin comforting him.

_“I’ve waited a hundred years_

_But I’d wait a million more for you_

_Nothing prepared me for_

_What the privilege of being yours would do.”_

“He sounds like a Traveler,” Marcy says, her fingers curling around his shoulders.

He pulls her closer – if that’s even possible. “Ryan O’Neal _is_ a Traveler. 0111. He was one of the few historians who participated in the Extended Living experiment with Trevor and his wife. I met him once. He lived in two host bodies in the 25th and is currently living in the 21st in Illinois. He’s a real philosophical type – as anyone who’s ever listened to his music has probably gathered.”

 "So he’s basically Trevor but with music instead of meditation.”

Philip laughs. “That’s a perfect description actually.”

They sway with the music, moving in a slow circle. Philip whispers the lyrics in her ear, something between song and speaking. “Your love is my turning page where only the sweetest words remain.”

“Is that what you’ll remember about me when I’m gone?”

Philip pulls back enough to look her in the eye. “I’ll remember everything.”

She looks down, her lip trembling.

He pulls her into his chest, stroking her hair. Her trembling lip turns into whimpers, the sound almost worse than if she’d been fully crying. It sounds like she’s given up. With nothing left to offer her but his memories, he tells her what he’ll remember. “I’ll remember the stoic, steady expression you have when you operate. I’ll remember the way these hands,” he takes her hand in his, turning it over, the hands now smaller, but no less capable, “past and future, hold the laser. I’ll remember the way they hold a scalpel, they way they tie stitches in shredded flesh. In that moment, they are the barrier between life and death.”

He tucks a piece of hair behind her ear. “I’ll remember your excitement as we heard our names for the first time. The little half smile you gave me when I told you it sounded too soft for such a force of nature.” The corner of her lip picks up. “There it is. I’ll remember how you shake when you get excited, like you’re a literal ball of joy that can’t be contained. I’ll remember how your eyes lit up when you saw the pictures of our hosts, how you pointed out that we have the same hair.

“I’ll remember the calm panic in your voice when you told me your host was irreversibly comprised, but how you never skipped a beat as you moved the topic on to my sobriety – like that was more important than your life. I’ll remember how you would come to ops in the middle of the night when I thought I’d cave, how you’d pull my hair back with one of your hair ties and hold the bucket as I puked my guts out in withdrawal, how you’d stay up all night with me when I was too jittery to sleep, the anxiety making me want to reach for the drugs.

“I’ll remember the way you hold a gun, a strange mixture of beautiful and deadly. I’ll remember your favorite color is purple. I’ll remember how you always slept with the blankets covering your shoulders, your body curled in a C, your eyelashes blonde against your cheeks.” He runs his finger along her cheekbone, the touch wet with tears. “I’ll remember what a selfless, caring, strong person you are, Marcy. I will never forget a thing about you.”

The song fades into silence, the two of them still wrapped up in each other.

He hears the door open.

“This isn’t a good time,” Trevor says, pushing a woman Philip’s never seen before back out the door.

“What’re you talking about? She might not be alive if we wait – oh.” She stands in the doorway, staring. The rest of his team fans out behind her, taking in the sight of them tangled in embrace. MacLaren’s eyebrows go up in surprise; Carly smiles. Trevor face has pained sympathy written all over it, which worries him most of all. “Well,” she tuts. “I have some good news. Marcy, you’re about to be cured.”

“Uh, who are you?”

“Wow, Marcy, nice to meet you,” the woman says, sarcasm dripping from her voice. “I’m Grace.” She looks to Philip, his hands still on Marcy’s back, then to Trevor. “Is this a twenty-firster?”

“No,” Philip says warily. “I’m 3326.”

“This is Traveler 0027,” Trevor explains. “She’s a programmer.”

“Programmer?” Philip echoes. “Programmers aren’t Travelers. They don’t do any actual Traveling.”

“They do now,” Grace says, plopping down at his computer, clicking away at the keys. “Well, the Director didn’t give the order, but I’m the lead programmer so essentially I am the Director. What’s it going to do about it now, am I right?” No one laughs. “I chose her host,” Grace explains. “I made the mistake. I’ve come back to correct it.”

He looks to Marcy, unsure if what he’s hearing is true, if he should even bother getting his hopes up. “She must be pretty important to the future, then.”

“That’s debatable,” Grace shrugs. “Call it a high moral compass.”

“So, what’s the catch here?” Marcy asks. “I live, but at what cost?” “Nothing more than a few useless memories, I guarantee,” Grace promises. “I can use your original host upload and bypass the damaged areas of your brain and boom! You’re you, the way you should’ve been.”

“What’ll happen to my memories of the twenty-first?”

“I don’t have access to it, do I? Your historian can fill you in on all that.” She stands up. “Sit.”

“You don’t have to do this, Marcy.” He’s selfish. What if she’s different? What if it doesn’t work and she dies anyway? What if she’s somehow worse off this way?

“That’s not a choice,” Grace says firmly.

“I think it is,” MacLaren interjects.

“I think it’s not,” Grace says, staring him down. “I gave up everything for this. I can never go back. I will never step into that blue lit room in Shelter 1 ever again. I will never be able to admire my greatest creation; never be able to talk to it again. I gave up my entire life – everything I love – to save her. She will do this. Sit, Marcy.”

She shakes her head. "I didn't ask you to do that."

"Well, I did," Grace counters.

“What will happen to me?”

“What happens to all hosts,” Grace says. “Your current consciousness will be overwritten.”

“You mean she’ll die,” Carly counters.

No. He can’t watch that. 

Grace turns to Marcy. “You won’t remember a thing.”

“I’m not sure I want this,” Marcy says, backstepping.

“You’re going to die either way,” Carly reasons. “If you do this, you still have the opportunity to save the world.”

Marcy mulls this over in her head for a few moments, then sits down in the chair. Philip sucks in a breath.

“Perfect,” Grace says. “Now, I just need you to focus on this code.”

Trevor puts a hand on Philip’s shoulder. “This is for the best.”

“I mean, obviously I don’t want to lose her,” he whispers, careful not to disturb her. “But what if she’s different? What if I lose her, this person right here? This person I –.” He cuts himself off.

“I’ve had my consciousness transferred many times,” Trevor says. “I was always the same.”

“How would you know?” Philip argues. “Besides. Part of your brain didn’t need to be bypassed in order to do it.”

“Philip, she has to do this. She does this, or you lose her forever, and any hope of getting her back.”

“Yeah.” Philip runs a hand over his mouth. “I know.”

“That’s it!” Grace says, pulling a flash drive out of the tower. “You’re done.”

“You didn’t reset her,” he points out.

“All in due time, lover boy,” Grace claps his shoulder. “Now. Who’s driving me back to Ellis’?”

“I will,” MacLaren volunteers. “My wife will be expecting me home soon anyway.” He stops in front of the desk, wavering. “Goodbye, Marcy.”

MacLaren leaves with Grace, leaving the rest of them standing around in anxious silence. When will it be?

“Should I go make us some tea?” Carly offers.

“Teapot’s on the stove,” Marcy says. She relaxes back in the computer chair, and Philip can tell by the look on her face the neurostimulator is wearing off.

Carly turns on the stove eye to boil the water, wrinkling her nose. “What is that smell?”

“Which eye are you using?”

“Front right,” Carly says. “Why?”

“There was a cooking incident,” Philip explains. “And some violent stirring.”

“It wasn’t necessarily violent,” Marcy counters. “But there was some force involved.”

“You two cooked?” Trevor asks, a smile forming. “What’d you make?” He’s distracting.

“Some pasta recipe. I found it on the internet, the pictures looked good, so we tried it. As it turns out, we both hate it.”

“It might’ve been good if the gnocchi hadn’t been scorched or the zucchini spilled on the floor, but that’s all in the past now, isn’t it?”

“This will all be in the past soon.”

Trevor looks at her with concern. “Marcy.”

“I don’t want to let go of my memories of the twenty-first.” Her eyes fall to Philip. “I’ve had the best time of my life here.”

“Want me to bring the tea to you, Marcy?” Carly calls from the kitchen.

“No, I’ll get it,” she calls back. She makes it halfway to the kitchen when she stops dead in her tracks.

Philip furrows his eyebrows. “Marcy?” She’s making choking sounds like she’s struggling to breathe. She crumples to the floor like folding paper. She clutches her head, screaming in pain. “Marcy!” He’s by her side in an instant, Carly and Trevor gathering around but keeping their distance.

He knew it was coming. He’s known for a long time. As of this evening, he even knew when.

But nothing prepared him for what the image of her screaming, writhing body would do to him.

 

He should’ve remembered the way Marcy came through.

Now he sits on the couch while she holds ice to his jaw. “I’m still really sorry,” she says. “My host was being assaulted when she died, so when I woke up to you touching me, training just kicked in.”

It hurts to smile. “I know,” he says. “Of all people, I should’ve remembered.”

She removes the ice and inspects the injury. “You’re already bruising but," she runs her fingers along the bone. He winces. Not quite the gentle, curious touch he remembers. “I don’t think it’s broken.” She puts the ice back, taking his hand and making him hold the ice instead. She looks the same, but down to the very way she touches him, she is not the Marcy who came through with him.

Trevor sits down on the coffee table. “I suppose you’d like to know what’s happened between your original consciousness transfer and this one.”

She sits back against the couch, slinging an arm across the back. “I suppose I would.”

They all look at him expectantly. “What?”

“Tell her,” Carly insists. “You remember better than all of us.”

“Just got punched in the mouth, Carly,” he winces. “You were all there. I’m sure you remember enough of the important stuff.”

“Your host body was severely compromised,” Trevor begins. “As was Philip’s.”

She turns to him. "What's wrong with you?"

“Heroin,” Philip says softly, looking down.

Her eyes go wide. “Heroin?”

“He’s doing much better,” Trevor reassures.

“You’re still taking it?” She open mouthed shakes her head. “I can’t believe this. How do you do missions?”

“You were helping me wean off it,” he explains.

She takes a moment to attempt to compose herself. “So. What’s wrong with my host?”

“Congenital brain defect,” Trevor says. “Grace – a programmer who sent herself here to the twenty-first – bypassed the damaged portions of your brain, but had to leave out some things.”

“What things?”

He shrugs, his expression sympathetic. “I’m not sure. She said they were redundancies. Useless things.”

She grits her teeth. “The human brain does not operate on binary code. There’s no way to know what is useless and what is vitally important.”

“You were going to die,” Carly tells her. “You were having seizures. Your brain just couldn’t handle the sudden increase in capacity. We need you, Marcy. Not only that, every single one of us cares about you. You were suffering. There was hardly a choice.”

“So how do we know she only took out useless memories and not something important – like how to operate the laser?”

Trevor narrows his eyes. “Do you still know how to operate the laser?”

“I do, but you get my point.”

He shrugs. “Well, I guess there’s only one way to find out.”

“I can only sincerely hope none of you suffer for mistakes she may have made. If I ever find her,” Marcy threatens, taking a deep breath. “Tell me about the missions we did.”

He lets the others take the lead in giving her recaps of the missions. He chips in occasionally if something is left out, but there is one thing he consciously does not tell her, at least not in front of the team. He’s not sure how she’ll react.

 

Her footsteps echo on the metal stairs. In one hand is the bouquet of purple flowers in their glass cup, now beginning to wilt and turn brown around the edges. In the other hand is the note. She puts the flowers on his desk with a thud. “What’re these for?” She holds up the note. “Is this from you?”

“Yes.”

“‘You made an impact on me’,” she quotes from the note. “What does that even mean? It doesn’t make sense in this connotation. Is it an inside joke?”

He feels a rush of anger. What else did Grace take from her? “Not a joke, no,” he says coolly. “You told me you hated how the historians were treated and how you wished you could change that, but you wouldn’t make a difference in the world because you were only one person. Then I told you that wasn’t true, that ‘you made an impact on me’,” he air quotes. “You said it back to me before we kissed for the first time.”

She scoffs. “I think I’d remember us kissing.”

“It wasn’t in the 25th,” he says. “It was here. Recently.”

Her face softens, staring back at the note, the gears in her head turning. “Here?”

“As you’ve probably interpreted from the note,” he explains, “I’ve had feelings for you for quite sometime now. Trevor encouraged me to take the leap and tell you. I’m guessing you read the note because then you came down here and told me you wanted to see where this goes,” he gestures between them, “and then you kissed me.”

“ _I_ kissed _you_?” She shakes her head. “No. Regardless of anything we may feel, you know we can’t do that, right? We can’t be a couple. We can’t be anything other than teammates.”

“MacLaren and Carly seem to manage it.” His voice thins. “Why can’t we?”

“Yeah, and if the Director had known they were involved, they’d never have been put on the same team together. We’re here to save the world. Protocol One has to be the first thing on your mind and nothing else.”

“Yeah,” he says, standing up. “I got it.” He walks around her, unable to make eye contact as he turns the corner into his room. His chest hurts. Grace was wrong. She took more then useless things. This Marcy was different. Colder. Stricter. More intense.

 

Being assigned a team saved him.

He rarely saw people – real, actual, living people – before then. It’d been just him and an archivist, fine tuning his brain all day long.

But meeting these four people who welcomed him with open arms – it gave him hope. Getting his arrival date – it gave him purpose. It gave him a goal. But life was more than work.

When he met her – he felt his soul click.

Now it all came crashing down around him.

He didn’t know how to do it without his anchor.

He felt lost – the world heavy.

He wasn’t Atlas.

He knows he shouldn't. He knows how much progress he'll be resetting if he does.

But it hurts so much. And it's so easy.

He hates himself before he ever does it.

He opens a drawer in his dresser and among his socks is a golden tin. He picks it up an and turns it over, hearing the contents rattle. He pries the tin open with his fingers, staring at the white powder in the tiny bag. He’s doesn’t measure out the dose – he just takes it.

 

_There is a silver key in his hand._ _He turns it over, inspecting it._

_Snow illuminated by the moon’s light fell all around him in ethereal silence. In front of him was a house with warm light radiating from its sheer curtained windows. Somehow, he knew he should go inside._

_He fit the key into the lock on the door and heard the tumblers click. He pushed the door open and removed the key, tossing it in the dish on the counter, the act eerily strange and comfortingly familiar all at once. He stands in a kitchen, dishes piled in the sink and a pot of vegetable soup on the stove. Three normal chairs surround a square dining table, a high chair taking the place of the fourth. A high chair? “_

_In here!” he hears a voice call. He follows the sound. The hallway opens up into a spacious living room, decorated mostly with brightly colored toys. There is a basket of books by the TV and a small toy chest at the end of the couch. Blocks are spread out in the middle of the floor._

_“_ _Daddy!” A blonde toddler comes barreling at him as fast as her tiny legs will carry her, launching herself into his arms. He scoops her up and she wraps her arms around his neck a little too tight, but instinct takes over again and he showers her in kisses._

_“_ _No kisses for me?” Marcy sits on the floor with her back against the couch, a soup mug balanced on her belly like a shelf. Two kids?_

_Philip releases the toddler who begins to sort through the basket of books. He takes a seat next to Marcy, giving her a quick kiss. He lowers his voice, his eyes trained on the little girl with a curly blonde ponytail. “Marcy, who is this?”_

_She furrows her brow. “This is Gina, our daughter,” she points to her stomach, “and this is our son, who we have yet to agree on a name for.”_

_“_ _How – how do we have kids?”_

_She laughs awkwardly. “What do you mean how? You were there, I think you know how.”_

_He shakes his head. “No, I mean, how has the Director not smited us already? How do we do missions like this?”_

_Gina puts a book in Philip’s hand. “Read this,” she says, crawling into his lap and curling into his chest without waiting for an answer._

_Marcy takes the book and sits it on the couch behind her. “In just a minute, okay? I need to talk to Daddy for just a second and then he’ll read it.” Gina huffs. “Go play. We’ll be right back.”_

_She marches over to the kitchen playset, angrily stirring an imaginary pot of something._

_"Could you give me a hand here?” Philip takes her hand and helps her up. She rubs her back absentmindedly as she leads him to a bedroom, **their** bedroom, he realizes, and shuts the door partially behind her, leaving it open enough she can make sure Gina is okay. _

_Philip looks around the room. The bed looks hastily made, a throw blanket tossed across the lower left corner. Above the bed is a huge photograph of him in a navy blue suit, Marcy standing beside him in a white lace dress, her hair elegantly pulled back and partially covered by a long white veil. He looks down at his left hand, the fourth finger encircled by a golden band. They’re married too? Is this real?_

_He notices a fuzzy black and white framed photo by the bed and at first, he can’t tell what it is, but then he notices the curve of a forehead, the bump of a nose, the valley of lips. “Is this -?”_

_“_ _Our son,” Marcy confirms, sitting on the bed next to him to see. “He’s due in five weeks.”_

_“_ _What happened to Protocol Four?”_

_“_ _There are no Protocols anymore. The Director abandoned this timeline four and a half years ago. It’s your third favorite day, behind our wedding day and the day Gina was born.” She reaches across the bed to her nightstand and grabs another picture. Marcy holds a very pink newborn to her bare chest looking absolutely drained and utterly thrilled at the same time. Philip stands beside her, their foreheads pressed together, his hand gently supporting his daughter._

_“We lost? Does that mean the future is still as terrible as when we left? Is it worse?”_

_“I have no idea what conditions will be like,” Marcy says, putting the picture back. “Only that we don’t have to live in them.”_

_“_ _Fill me in here, Marce. I have no idea how we got here. The last thing I remember is you telling me we couldn’t be anything more than teammates because it would interfere with the missions. But now,” he gestures around them, “everything about this would interfere with missions.”_

_She looks at this him with sad eyes. “That’s because this isn’t real. At least not yet,” she clarifies. “You’ve not yet been able to determine if this will be the outcome of the current timeline.”_

_“Timeline?”_

_“_ _I’m sorry,” she says, taking his hands._

_This has to be real. This is everything he could ever dream life to be. “No.”_

_“_ _This one is your favorite,” she tells him. “You’re high.”_

_“I can’t be high.”_

 

“Yeah, well, you are.” He opens his eyes and he’s in that damn garage, not the warm house. He doesn’t want to do this. He wants to go back. He wants to read Gina that book. He wants to feel his son kick. He wants to live a boring, simple life with her – with his wife. He reaches back into the void for that perfect timeline. “No, no, no, no. Philip. Philip!”

What he receives is much worse than anything he could’ve ever expected.

 

_The air is worse than he remembers._

_He stands in familiar grey clothing, the corridor’s fluorescent lighting washing everything out. Wooden doors line the walls, an LED display above each one. He doesn’t need anyone to tell him where he is. He knows. Shelter 1, Historian’s wing._

_“_ _Maybe we can try again.” He’s so used to hearing Marcy’s voice now, it’s almost surreal when he hears 3569 speak. Her body is softer than he remembers, her eyes ringed with sleepless nights. “They say third time’s the charm.”_

_He looks down, suddenly realizing what the weight in his arms is. An infant, maybe three months old, naps contentedly in the crook of his elbow. 3569 gently rubs her hand over his dark hair, cupping his tiny head. Somehow, he feels this isn’t the only time they’ve been in this position. “I can’t.”_

_“_ _You have to,” she says. “You know what’ll happen if we don’t.”_

_He knows, he does. They’ll take him away anyway and revoke their visiting privileges. He’ll grow up never knowing who his parents are, or who his sister is. “I’ve already lost one child to these bastards. I can’t let them take another.”_

_3569 puts a hand on his shoulder. “It’s not up to us.” She scoops the baby out of his arms and takes him over to the woman behind the glass. “6942. Date of birth: August 7, 2453.” The woman reaches her hands out, closing in on his son. “_

_He will be well taken care of here.”_

_"That’s bullshit,” 3326 mutters._

_“Excuse me?”_

_“You’re going to put electrodes on his tiny head and use electrotherapy to manipulate his brain, expanding and stretching it beyond what the human brain should be capable of. You put him through that again, and again, and again, sometimes up to five times a day – and it’s going to hurt. So much. It’ll feel like his brain is being fried. He spends his first three years doing that. Then you put him in a class with the other three-year old’s and you teach them to form memory chains, hurting them and abusing them if they mess up. Then, when he’s five, you start real work. He gets one of those god-awful rooms all to himself. And he stays there, he stays in that tiny, windowless room until he’s twenty and you assign him a host body, and he risks his life for a program he didn’t choose to participate in. He might not even get that far. He could misfire before he ever gets to see what the world looked like before it all went to shit. Before you and this fucking Traveler program ever existed!”_

_“_ _3326,” 3569 pulls him back. He’s worked himself up to the glass, considering breaking through it and taking his son back._

_“_ _He’s going to grow up alone, spending more time with a computer than people. He needs his parents and his sister – he needs his family!”_

_“_ _Clearly, you were trained as a historian, but now you must be in your thirties, and yet you’re still here.” She purses her lips and looks him over. “What happened to you?” “_

_The Director changed it’s mind,” 3569 says, forcefully pulling 3326 away from the glass. He’s always surprised how strong she is. “Our participation is no longer required, though we stand ready should a team lose their medic or historian and need us.”_

_“_ _So you’re just replacements. Secondaries. Backups.” She rolls her eyes and heads off to the nursery, but not before he hears her say, “Throwaways.”_

_“Don’t,” 3569 warns, putting her hand on his chest to hold him back. “You’re not a throwaway and neither am I.”_

_“Not one, but two of our kids are historians. We’re still stuck here, in overcrowded shelters, drinking recycled water. I went through the entire historian training, and it’s all for nothing.” He shakes his head. “This is my worst timeline, isn’t it?”_

_She runs her hand up and down his arm softly. “It is.”_

 

The 21st century comes sharply back into focus. Brown eyes are replaced with blue, mascara smudged under the right eye. Bright light burns his eyes. He squints, trying to get away from it. “I’ll be handling your heroin doses from now on.” Marcy sits back on his bed, her legs crossed underneath her. Her voice is serious. “You were overdosing, Philip. If I wasn’t here, if I didn’t have Narcan with me. . .” She shakes her head, swiping the back of her hand underneath her eye, smearing the other side. “You would’ve died.”

He can’t look at her.

“Listen,” she says, grabbing his hand with both of hers. “I know I don’t remember what happened in the twenty-first. I know – clearly – Grace took more than a few redundancies. I don’t remember everything that happened in the future, but listen to me, I know,” she squeezes his hand, “ _I know_ how much you mean to me. I know I can’t lose you. Especially not like this.”

A lump forms in his throat.

“If you don’t matter to yourself - you matter to me.”

That does it.

He breaks down. Ugly, awful, embarrassing sobbing.

She scoots forward, wrapping her arms around him. He buries his head into her shoulder, her hair muffling his crying. She rubs his back soothingly. “They told me you were doing so good. What happened?”

“You,” his voice cracks.

“Me?”

He pulls back. “You’re different.”

“I know it’s hard. But you have to fight it. You have to.” She tilts her head. “I must’ve been more important to you than I thought.”

He puts his head in his hands. “God, you are.”

“It’s still me, Philip. I’m not gone,” she promises. “I’m right here. Just give me a little time to catch up.”


End file.
